cheeriness and comfort. And, after he had gone, you could hear these
men whistling and singing at their tasks for hours; the mere fact of
his presence had so lightened their labors. The bosses caught this
spirit of friendliness, and there was always harmony at Burnham
Breaker and in the Burnham mines, among all who labored there in any
way whatever. But the screen-room boys had, somehow, come to look upon
this man as their especial friend. He sympathized with them. He seemed
to understand how hard it was for boys like they were to bend all day
above those moving streams of coal. He always had kind words for them,
and devised means to lessen, at times, the rigid monotony of their
tasks. They regarded him with something of that affection which a
child has for a firm, kind parent. Moreover, they looked upon him as a
type of that perfect manhood toward which each, to the extent of his
poor ability, should strive to climb. Even in his death he had set for
them a shining mark of manly bravery. He had died to rescue others. If
he had been a father to them before, he was a hero to them now. But he
was dead. They had heard his gentle voice and seen his kindly smile
and felt the searching tenderness of his brown eyes for the last time.
They would see his face once more; it would not be like him as he was,
but--they would see it.

They had gathered on the grass-plot, on the hill east of the breaker,
under the shadow of a great oak-tree. There were forty of them. They
were dressed in their best clothes; not very rich apparel to be sure,
patched and worn and faded most of it was, but it was their very best.
There was no loud talking among them. There were no tricks being
played; there was no shouting, no laughter. They were all sober-faced,
earnest, and sorrowful.

One of the boys spoke up and said: "Tell you what I think, fellows; I